


crooked arrows

by misura



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristan obtains clarity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crooked arrows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenPhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenPhoenix/gifts).



Initially, Tristan assumes his interest in Galahad is fraternal, some sign of Arthur's vaunted 'brotherhood of men' manifesting itself in an irrational urge to protect someone clearly unsuited for war, for battle - one does not need to take pleasure in killing to be a soldier (or whatever the Knights are, at this point, to Rome, to the Britons, to themselves) but a certain aptitude is required, a natural (ha!) assumption that one's own life is of greater value than that of anyone else, save perhaps those who fight beside you.

(Tristan has no intention of dying for anyone, or for some vague ideal that only exists in books and the minds of men who read too much.)

If Arthur is the most clever of them, the one most suited to lead them, Galahad (Tristan reasons) is the youngest of them, the one most likely to fall behind, to be devoured by the laws of survival.

Thus, the most logical thing for Tristan to do would be to ignore him, ignore his feelings, let the inevitable happen. It's the way the world works; there's no cruelty in it, merely a cold intellect, like the Romans who write their books about peace and the worship of a single benevolent (but ultimately distant) god, safe in their stone-walled city, condemning others for failing to accept the unnatural superiority of men placed above them by Roman law and their family's name, rather than any skill or ability. (There are other books, of course; Arthur's books, but they represent a minority, an aberration.)

Alas:

"I think that you just saved my life back there." Galahad, looking young and sweaty and bloody, like fresh-killed prey, but not dead; like a trophy, but whole, untouched.

Tristan shrugs. He does not feel embarrassed; it would be a poor survival instinct, to experience that kind of emotion only after the fact.

Galahad half-scowls and half-smiles. It's the oddest expression Tristan has ever witnessed on another man's face, living, dead or dying. "Thank you."

Tristan shrugs again. There's a part of him that wants to claim Galahad in some way, to use this moment as leverage for something more; a life saved is a life owed, after all, but the colder part of his mind knows it would be a mistake, that humans simply don't work that way.

He supposes it might be interesting, to stalk a prey he has no intention of killing, to discover that he might take pleasure in something other than death.

"You could say something, you know." The smile has slipped away from Galahad's mouth but it lingers in his eyes, just a little. Just enough to make things interesting; a challenge, but far from an impossible one. "It's considered polite, not to ignore people when they're talking to you."

"Next time, move a little to the right," Tristan says. "It makes for an easier shot."

Galahad stares at him, still, but narrow-eyed, less like prey and more like fellow predator - wary, rather than frightened. "I really don't understand you."

_You will,_ Tristan wants to say, even though there is no reason to make that assumption, to count on an outcome as successful as that. He shrugs instead, watching Galahad turn and walk away, possibly to get his wounds checked by someone trustworthy, more likely to find something to eat or drink and ignore them until they start to bother him past the point where ignoring them is possible.

(A comparison slips into his mind, ready made, between what he intends to be and the cut on Galahad's shoulder that requires binding, at the very least; he discards it as being useless, pointless, instead pondering the best circumstances for a shoulder wound to go from merely painful to insufferable.)


End file.
